Teeth of Beasts (Skinners)

by Marcus Pelegrimas

  Patting the guard on the cheek, the blonde said, “Hi, Mikey.”

  Even while giving her half a smirk, Mikey somehow managed to keep his eyes from wandering along the blonde’s impressive body, which was barely covered by a half shirt and low-ride Capri jeans. “Hello, Shae.”

  Shae’s breasts moved just right and hung just low enough to be real.

  There were no visible roots to be found within hair that dangled past her shoulders in a flowing wave. Either that hair was a naturally occurring miracle or it was cared for at a salon that cost more per visit than Paige had ever spent on a car.

  She was tall without the benefit of heels.

  Her smile was not only genuine, but also gorgeous without a hint of makeup.

  What Paige noticed most of all, however, was the cool green waves that flowed from Shae’s skin like a naturally occurring veil.

  “These two know the men that helped Kate last night,” Mikey said.

  When Shae looked at Paige again, she did so as if she’d just found an old friend that had been presumed dead. “What are those guys’ names?” she asked.

  For some reason, giving Rico’s nickname seemed like a snub to Shae, so she replied, “Terrance. And Cole.”

  Extending a hand to Paige, she grasped it and held on earnestly. “Those two were so brave. If there’s anything they need, just let us know. And if anyone here refuses you, tell them to answer to me. That goes for both of you.”

  Paige smiled, pleasantly surprised to find someone like Shae who ranked so low on the Bitch Meter.

  Reaching into a purse tucked under her left arm, Shae pulled out a little case that was a miniature version of the purse. It opened like a compact and held two different styles of business cards. “Here,” she said as she handed one to Paige. “This is my personal phone number, and I’ll always answer it when I’m away from here. I’ll be around for a while, though.” Her pale blue eyes dropped and then flicked back up again. Leaning in closer, she added, “I love those boots. They’d really come in handy fending off the drunks that waddle through this place.”

  Not only had Shae managed to ease right onto Paige’s good side, but she’d also noticed the batons that were hidden well enough to get through most security checks.

  And then she was gone. She walked through the door beside the large window and headed straight across the main room to see to her own business. Mikey continued down the hall and motioned for the Skinners to follow him.

  The house lights were on, which allowed Paige to see straight through the tinted glass and into the main room. Without those lights, the window would most likely be a one-way mirror reflecting three large stages, brass poles, and several tables and chairs scattered throughout the central part of the club. While she expected the floors to be covered in spilled beer and God only knew what else, everything out there appeared spotless. A few dancers in street clothes clustered on the main stage, talking among themselves and pulling on a shiny brass pole to test how well it was anchored to the floor and ceiling. While all of the dancers were pretty, only one was in Shae’s league, and she also gave off the cool green scent. The only other source of the scent was a redhead sitting at the bar in the opposite corner of the room adjacent to the main entrance. Shae walked over to rub the redhead’s back and point toward the glass.

  “Hi!” the redhead shouted just loud enough to be heard.

  Ned looked toward the sound and asked, “Who’s that?”

  “Kate,” Mikey replied. “She’ll want to talk to you, but let’s check in with Christov first.” He led them down the hallway, past the dressing rooms and to a narrow door marked PRIVATE. He knocked, waited for a few seconds, and then opened it.

  The first thing that caught her attention was a man wearing a pale silk shirt sitting behind a cluttered desk. His clean-shaven, sharply angled face was just as smooth as his bald, polished scalp.

  “Christov, these two say they know the guys who chased those freaks away last night,” Mikey explained.

  By now Paige’s eyes had adjusted well enough for her to get a feel for the rest of the room. It could very well have been the security office of a small casino. Christov’s desktop was buried beneath a computer and several stacks of papers. The wall behind him was adorned with various certifications and commercial licenses, but the two largest walls were covered with monitors showing various sections of Bunn’s Lounge from different angles in crisp black and white. Watching the dancers was obviously not the priority, since the cameras were pointed at the bar, the edges of the stages, the tables throughout the room, and an area filled with overstuffed couches and armchairs sectioned off by a thick velvet curtain. After tapping a button that dimmed the glow from his computer monitor, Christov rolled along the edge of his desk in a cheap office chair. He studied Paige and Ned while flaring the wide nostrils of his thin, hooked nose. “What am I supposed to do with them?” he asked in an accent that could have been European, Asian, or possibly African.

  “They say they also know something about the…uh…” Finding himself at a loss for words, Mikey used two fingers to tap the spot on his mouth where a Nymar’s feeding fangs would be.

  “Yeah. I just bet you know all about them,” Christov said as he stood up to model a crisp pair of suit pants and a thin leather belt. “That’d make you Skinners?”

  “Yes sir,” Ned replied. “You’re familiar with us?”

  “The girls I have working for me, they’re more than just pretty, you know? They tell me about the ones like you. Between the old man and your two buddies from last night distracting my security, my girls wouldn’t be in so much trouble.”

  “My friends are behind bars right now and your girl is sipping daiquiris in the next room,” Paige said.

  Christov’s movement was either a shrug or a way to adjust the shirt upon his shoulders. “Don’t mistake me. I do appreciate their help.”

  “Then return the favor by answering some questions. First of all, what old man are you talking about?”

  While studying her carefully, Christov bumped a folded newspaper lying near his computer monitor to reveal the handle of a gun. Although the bump was hardly an accident, he didn’t make a move toward the pistol. “He comes in to talk to the girls. The special ones, you know? He pays well and always buys drinks.” Nodding toward Ned, he added, “Carries a stick with thorns like that cane of yours. Shae, Jordan, Kate, and the ones like them told me about Skinners because this old man is one. He didn’t lift a finger to help with those tattooed freaks, though.”

  “Have you ever spoken to him?” Ned asked.

  “I approached him once. He seemed quiet, so I leave him be.”

  “Does the name Peter Walsh ring any bells?”

  “No.”

  Having dealt with Nymar for several years, Paige had become very skilled in picking out lies. Nothing about Christov—from the way he carried himself to the tone in his voice—set off any alarms. When she reached for her phone, Christov tensed but still didn’t go for his gun. Ned, on the other hand, swung his cane up to slap it against Mikey’s arm before the bouncer could reach his shoulder holster.

  Paige took out her phone and held it up for everyone to see. “I’ve got a picture. Maybe you recognize him.”

  Christov nodded once to calm Mikey down and then held out his hand.

  Pulling up a photo of Peter’s face, she turned it toward Christov and showed it to him the way a cop would display a badge.

  After studying the display for less than a second, Christov snapped his fingers. “That asshole stormed my place. He got in because none of my men ever saw him before, but he’s one of those…”

  Before Christov started pantomiming a scene from Dracula, Ned told him, “They’re called Nymar. How long have they been stalking you?”

  “Not stalking me. My girls. Those freaks hang out in the bushes, lurking in the shadows like ghouls. I had to close down during lunch hours because I couldn’t afford to pay for security when the only customers are businessme
n and old timers who wander in to stare at tits.” Placing his hand upon the pistol lying in front of him, Christov fumed, “Those tattooed assholes harass my girls every chance they get. When I call the cops on them, they scatter. I pay to arm my men, but those shit stains don’t fear guns. Jordan missed her last shift, so who knows what they did to her. They have fangs. All of them. Especially that one,” he added while pointing to the picture on Paige’s glowing phone display. “He was the boldest of them all. Last week he walks right in through the front door and makes it all the way to VIP room. When Blake tried to get rid of him, he sprouted enough fangs to fill his whole mouth and spits in his face.”

  “Yeah?” Paige asked.

  “Mikey, send Blake in here.”

  When Blake walked into the office, Paige was surprised the room could hold him. He stood well over six feet tall and seemed almost that wide. His stout body made it uncomfortable for him to lower his arms all the way, and his skin looked like heavy canvas that had been scorched to a deep black. Regarding each of the people in turn, Blake let out a haggard sigh.

  “You see?” Christov asked. “That man in your picture spit into his face.”

  Blake’s eyes rolled toward the top of his head at the indignity of having to wedge himself into such a cramped space just to relive that particular memory.

  “Tell them what happened after he spit on you.”

  “I…I don’t see what…” Blake stammered in a voice that was so low it practically rumbled beneath the floor. Seeing the insistent scowl on Christov’s face, he said, “I almost passed out. Almost.”

  Looking around at all the monitors, Paige said, “Something tells me we can see all of this for ourselves.”

  Christov dropped into his chair and filled the office with wailing squeaks as he rolled to a small table weighed down by a stack of VCRs and tapes. “I expected the cops might be poking around, so I had this ready.” Picking up a remote and jabbing a button, he added, “I think you’ll see more than the cops anyway.”

  One of the monitors on the wall showed a view looking down into what must have been the VIP room. Separated from the rest of the club by a thick curtain, the room was a silky, padded cave lit by a few recessed bulbs tastefully covered to look like glowing moons in a velvety sky. More curtains lined the walls, and plush couches interspersed with wide, heavily padded chairs were filled with customers that must have paid through the nose to be escorted into their excessively comfortable seats. The time stamp at the bottom of the screen was from a Friday night about a week and a half ago.

  Shae was only one of many dancers grinding in laps in impressive displays of erotic contortionism. Some of the guys were a bit too excited, but were kept in line with a few polite wags of their girl’s finger. “All right,” Christov said, having already seen the movie. “Here comes the good part.”

  As promised, a young man wearing torn jeans and a Black Sabbath T-shirt lunged into the frame and grabbed the blond nymph. She struggled to pull her wrist from his grip but was unable to pull free. There was no sound on the tape, but it was obvious that the guy in the T-shirt wasn’t screaming compliments about the upholstery or curtains. Paige stood up and walked over to the screen, which only made the picture seem worse. She took a step back until the pixilation wasn’t so bad, studying the man dragging the dancer by the wrist.

  “Is that Peter Walsh?” she asked after catching a glimpse of the black markings on the young guy’s neck.

  Christov nodded. “That’s the guy from the picture you showed me.”

  The image was close enough for Paige to sit down, but it was a far cry from the image in her head of the sweating, sickly Nymar who’d showed up at Rasa Hill.

  On the video, Blake and Mikey rushed into the room and knocked the Nymar against a wall. Peter fought back just enough to shove the bouncers away, but it allowed Shae to wriggle free and seek refuge between a couch and chair. Peter got within inches of her before Mikey grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him away again. Tearing free with enough force to send both men staggering into separate pieces of furniture, Peter jumped onto a couch and showed them all three sets of fangs.

  The bouncers kept their composure, even when dark froth began trickling from the corners of another customer’s mouth. Looking like some random guy in his forties, the customer went from pressing himself against a wall to throwing himself at the nearest bouncer. From out of frame another person with a mud-smeared face grabbed Blake and started pounding both fists against his chest and stomach.

  “Who are these guys with the dirty faces?” Paige asked.

  “Don’t know,” Blake replied. “They didn’t have fangs or tats. One of ’em’s been coming to the club for a few weeks without any problem. That night he flipped out.”

  Not all of the customers joined the fray. Some scrambled to get out, while the dancers still trapped in the room did their best to put as much furniture as possible between themselves and all those swinging fists. The moment Peter started to get overwhelmed, he backed away from the bouncers and found the guy in his forties with the muddy face. It was a standard tactic for cornered Nymar to get an extra dose of strength by feeding on anyone in sight. Peter clamped his mouth onto the patron’s shoulder, drank what he could, then discarded the man like an empty juice box.

  When the next wave of bouncers appeared, they were brandishing pistols. Peter took a few powerful swings at them, which were followed by a quick series of muzzle flashes. The blood was too fresh in his system for the gunshots to do much against him, so he refocused on Shae. The next bullet caught him in the back, and the wound was closed by a black tangle of threadlike tendrils. When Blake tried to get to Shae, Peter spat a wad of venom into his face. The hulking bouncer staggered, Peter knocked him down, and Shae leapt from the room. Finally, Peter clutched his chest and dropped to his knees with a severe case of dry heaves. Before Mikey and another bouncer could grab him, Peter darted away in a flicker that looked more like a glitch in the VCR.

  “Didn’t see him again after that,” Christov said.

  Still squinting at the monitor, Paige asked, “And you never saw anyone with that stuff on their face before?”

  “Hell no! Nobody looking like that would be allowed in my club.” Staring at his bouncers, Christov added, “Would they?”

  The bouncers couldn’t shake their heads fast enough.

  Grateful to look away from the screen after straining his good eye for so long, Ned asked, “Did you call the police?”

  “No,” Christov replied sternly. “We handle ourselves when there’s a fight. Other clubs have been shut down for less than this. Besides, the police would only make me piss into a test jar if I told them vampires were storming my place to try and kidnap a nymph. And with all this talk of the Mud Flu, if a video or even rumor of something like this gets out, I’ll be lucky if the government doesn’t burn my club down to the foundation.”

  “What do you know about Pestilence?” Paige asked.

  “Never heard of it.”

  “I doubt that very much,” Ned stated. “You and your men seem accustomed to the presence of Nymar. You know the nymphs on a first-name basis. You even know about Skinners. The odds that you don’t know about something like Pestilence are pretty damn remote.”

  Mikey positioned himself behind Ned, and Blake draped his thick, steaklike hands on Paige’s shoulders. She wasn’t helpless, but she doubted she could put the massive bodyguard down quick enough for both her and Ned to get away.

  “I have dealt with many different monsters to get where I am,” Christov hissed. “Just because you help one of my girls doesn’t give you the right to come in here and make demands.”

  “Dealt with monsters,” Ned repeated. “So the Nymar approached you before?”

  After nodding to his guards so they eased toward the back of the room, Christov said, “When I first opened this club, they came to me and asked to use it for their own. Before I had a chance to get worried about it, they disappeared. I hadn’t
heard from them again until the last few weeks.”

  “Are they the same ones who’ve been stalking your dancers?”

  “No. Different faces. Same tattoos.”

  “Let me guess,” Paige said. “The first Nymar were tall, dressed in fancy clothes, and threw a lot of money around?”

  Christov nodded. “They offered to buy in to my business, but threatened me when I wouldn’t sell.”

  Paige didn’t have to say a word to Ned on the matter. That was a picture-perfect description of the Nymar that had resided in St. Louis prior to her and Rico’s infamous “training exercise.”

  “These new ones,” Christov grunted as he settled back into his chair and rolled behind his desk. “They’re filthy. They reek of cheap beer and act like punks off the street. At least those other ones bathed. These are crazy. They sniff around my new girls, waiting for them to leave. Jerry, the leader, he even followed me home and offered to buy one of them from me! Every time I tell one of them to go to hell, they all get bolder. Just when I think I’m rid of them,” he added while waving at the monitor displaying the frozen image of what Peter left behind, “they charge my club like a pack of wolves.”

  Paige pulled up another picture from her phone and held it up. “If that’s Peter’s Before picture, take a look at the After one.”

  Christov’s eyes widened at the sight of the dead Nymar lying on the floor of Rasa Hill with the petrified tentacles emerging from his chest. Even in the darkened room it was obvious he’d gotten a whole lot paler. “I’ve heard someone mention Pestilence, but I don’t know who.”

  “Could you point him out to us?” Ned asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s…a bunch of people. Just random customers at the bar, they babble about crazy things including this Pestilence.” Waving a hand to his guards, Christov added, “They know the voice I mean!”

  “It’s like folks whisper all this stuff as they wander around,” Blake said. “Then they just start talking normal again.”